


The Princess's Keeper

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, F/M, Rule 63, Soulmate AU, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre’s princess – the beautiful umber woman in the granite bathtub who had began to sing one of her favorite meaningless pop songs – would get her soulmate tattoo, and would begin the search for the love of her life... </p>
<p>Every time Courfeyrac imagined her soulmate, the love of her life had light brown skin, a dark braid thrown over the shoulder of her palace servant’s uniform, and a half smile reaching her warm eyes that watched Courfeyrac with a familiarly affectionate gaze...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carolinecalflo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinecalflo/gifts).



Pulling aside the curtains and letting the sunbeams spill in and onto the maroon satin covers, Combeferre smiled at the epic groan coming from the lump under the duvet. “It’s half past ten, m’lady. The tutor has been waiting for you in the library for half an hour. Time to get up.”

“Make me,” said a muffled voice from under the blankets.

Jeanne Combeferre shook her head, feeling her dark brown braid swing across her back. “Now, Antoinette-”

“Go away,” the princess said. “It’s my birthday.”

“And that is why your mother allowed you to sleep in as late as you did,” Combeferre said, walking to the bed. “You have to get up now, m’lady.”

“Make me,” she said again.

Combeferre sighed, and then pulled the blanket off of the bed in one swift motion to reveal Princess Antoinette Courfeyrac, heir to the French throne, curled into a ball under the covers with a pillow over her head, only her body showing, clad in Superman footie pajamas. She sat straight up when Combeferre removed her blankets, pouting at her in a half-serious way that the lady’s maid was well acquainted with. “That was rude,” Courfeyrac said. “What if I had been naked?”

Combeferre knew that her colleagues would be scandalized by Courfeyrac’s question, but she was unperturbed. Maybe that was why Courfeyrac had requested that Combeferre be her personal servant, rather than switching out daily like the maids usually did. “Nothing that I haven’t seen before,” she said.

Courfeyrac thought about it again, then smiled at her. “Very true. Now give me back my blanket.”

She reached out for it but Combeferre held the blanket out of Courfeyrac’s reach. Seeing as she was a foot and a half taller than the petite princess, it was easy. “Go take your bath. I’ve drawn it already.” Courfeyrac crossed her arms across her chest, glaring up at Combeferre.

Combeferre raised her eyebrow. “Antoinette.”

Courfeyrac raised her own eyebrow. “Jeanne.”

“You need to be bathed for the party tonight, m’lady. Do it now.” They stared at each other for another long minute before Courfeyrac heaved herself up and out of bed.

“Sometimes I think that Maman is right, that I give you too much power over me.”

“Right,” Combeferre said, going to the closet. “But where would you be without me?”

“In bed,” Courfeyrac said with a rakish grin before she disappeared into the bathroom. Combeferre heard her unzipping her pajamas, heard them drop to the floor before the splash of water that came when Courfeyrac slipped into the tub. She smiled to herself as she heard Courfeyrac begin to hum out of tune.

“Would you like me to turn on the radio, m’lady?”

“I’d think you don’t like my voice,” Courfeyrac said, and Combeferre knew exactly what her face looked like without looking. “Go ahead, if you must.”

“I like your voice,” Combeferre said, speaking in a subdued tone as if the princess was right in front of her.

“Awwwww,” Courfeyrac said. “So sweet.”

“That’s me,” Combeferre said, her eyes on the open door into the bathroom.

She rubbed at her upper left arm, where her soulmate tattoo had been branded for eleven months and two weeks now. Almost an entire year before she could confirm what she first suspected when she saw the symbol. Combeferre remembered the burn that had woken her from a deep sleep, the feeling like an iron against her bicep. She had sat up and fumbled with the light, lifting up her sleeve to see a delicately sketched moth in black ink, backlit by the orange and red and yellow rays of a bold sun. Smiling with drowsy eyes, she had traced around the edges of it as the pain began to ebb, and she fell asleep with her fingers still grazing over the skin.

That night, the woman that Combeferre suspected of being her soulmate would get her tattoo. Combeferre’s princess – the beautiful umber woman in the granite bathtub who had began to sing one of her favorite meaningless pop songs – would get her soulmate tattoo, and would begin the search for the love of her life. That night, the best part of Combeferre's life could begin, or end.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac stifled a yawn, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Madame Valjean was the best tutor in the kingdom and always managed to make her history lessons interesting. But the sun was streaming in through the windows and making the wood of the library shelves shine, warming Courfeyrac’s skin and making her blink slowly and encouraging her mind to wander.

Tonight, she would get her tattoo. She would find out who she was meant to be with, the person that she was supposed to live with forever. What kind of image would be engraved on her skin? Who would that image lead her to? How long would it take Courfeyrac to find them?

Madame Valjean had never told Courfeyrac how the tattoos had begun, but she had discussed the societal importance of the soulmate tattoos: they helped people know for sure who they were meant to be with, lowering divorce rates and increasing marriage stability. The symbols took the place of wedding rings, and gave members of the bond a permanent reminder of their love.

Even though soulmates and tattoos were all that were on Courfeyrac’s mind today, instead Valjean was talking to her about the different countries of the people coming to Courfeyrac’s birthday party that night. “Your mother invited people from all of our allied countries,” Madame Valjean said. “She wants to make sure that you can meet your soulmate as soon as possible after your tattoo arrives.”

“Why is she sure that my soulmate is a royal, anyways?” Courfeyrac said, pushing back her cuticles.

Madame Valjean shook her head. “For as long anyone can remember, all soulmates have been other royals. It is the will of whatever universal force has created this phenomenon.”

Courfeyrac hesitated, but then nodded. “Okay. I guess that makes sense.” She bit the back of her lip, thinking about spending the rest of her life with one of the boring princes or princesses she was forced to eat with during formal functions. She’d much rather have a soulmate who had fun with her, somebody who understood her and took care of her. Somebody more like… Combeferre, actually.

Madame Valjean continued to show Courfeyrac the different homes of the foreign dignitaries on the enormous world map, but Courfeyrac was unable to concentrate on the lesson. Instead, she thought about her soulmate, what they could be like, what they could sound like, what their tattoo might look like. But every time Courfeyrac imagined her soulmate, the love of her life had light brown skin, a dark braid thrown over the shoulder of her palace servant’s uniform, and a half smile reaching her warm eyes that watched Courfeyrac with a familiarly affectionate gaze.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good, at all. Courfeyrac only hoped that when she met her real soulmate, Combeferre’s face would all but disappear from her mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Combeferre frowned at the landscape painting on the wall, crossing her arms. It would not stay straight, no matter how many times she reached out to adjust it, and no matter how infinitesimal her adjustments were. She didn’t normally bother with Courfeyrac’s decour; that was for the chambermaids to worry about, not her. But Courfeyrac was late coming from tutoring and Combeferre had to get the princess into her dress for the birthday party and do her hair and her makeup and then watch her as she discovered the mark that she would share with her soulmate. For Combeferre, the sooner this night was over, the better.

The princess entered the chambers, slamming the door shut. The painting that Combferre had been adjusting fell off of its nail, hitting the floor with a thud. “My mother is ridiculous,” Courfeyrac said, throwing her books onto her bed. “She stopped me on my way here yet again to remind me how to react if my soulmate proposes tonight.” She rolled her eyes, pulling her shirt off and over her head, flinging it onto the bed to drape over her school books.

“Ah,” Combeferre said, leaving the painting where it lay on the ground, instead going to Courfeyrac’s t-shirt, picking it up and shaking it out. “And how are you supposed to react?”

“I should be flattered but distant,” Courfeyrac said, her voice pitching upwards in a lilting parody of her mother’s. “Say that I couldn’t possibly right now, but mayhaps after our parents discuss terms we could come to an agreement for future matrimony.”

Combeferre couldn’t help herself from snorting with laughter.

“It’s ridiculous,” Courfeyrac said, sliding her pants off and shucking them onto the bed as well. Combeferre picked them up and slid them down the chute along with the shirt, then pulled out the chair at Courfeyrac’s vanity for her to sit down so Combeferre could do her makeup and hair.

Courfeyrac sat down, her arms crossed over her chest, which was covered by a white lacy brassiere. Combeferre saw that the princess had gooseflesh, and placed her warm hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders, rubbing her thumbs across her skin gently. “How would you like to look, m’lady?” Combeferre said.

“Like myself,” Courfeyrac said, looking at Combeferre in the mirror. Her brown eyes were wet, and her teeth were gnawing at her lower lip.

Combeferre stroked Courfeyrac’s dark curls, trying to send soothing feelings through her scalp. “Then you’re finished,” she said. “I have to say, I made you look beautiful.”

Courfeyrac smiled at Combeferre, reaching up to take the hand running through her hair and lacing their fingers together. Combeferre’s breath caught in her throat. “I’m  
very lucky to have you,” Courfeyrac said. “You’re the most wonderful friend I could ever hope for.”

Combeferre nodded. “And you are for me.”

Her eyes still locked with Combeferre’s in the mirror, Courfeyrac pressed her lips against the back of Combeferre’s hand. They were warm and plush, and Combeferre swallowed hard.

The door opened and Combeferre pulled away from Courfeyrac, turning to see a manservant enter, carrying a garment in a tall white cloth bag. “The princess’ dress for tonight,” he said.

Combeferre took the dress away from the servant and nodded to dismiss him. The door closed behind him with a soft click. “We have to do the makeup and hair before you get into the dress, m’lady.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Listen, why don’t you do as natural a look as you can get it without letting me look like I’ve just woken up after sleeping for fifteen hours.”

“Of course, m’lady,” Combeferre said, bowing her head. “As you wish.”

Fifteen minutes later, Combeferre zippered up the back of Courfeyrac’s dress, then tied the sash in the back so that the ends were even. “Christ,” Courfeyrac said, out of breath. “How much tighter does it have to be? I want to be able to dance at my own party.”

“Find me later in the evening, before the dancing, and I’ll loosen the ties for you,” Combeferre said, smoothing out the soft folds of the white chiffon that formed the body of Courfeyrac’s dress’s skirt.

“Right,” Courfeyrac said, then turned around.

Combeferre had noticed how well the white fabric had complimented the princess’s skin before, but seeing her in the dress, smiling at Combeferre – it took Combeferre’s breath away. There were no sleeves or straps holding the dress up, which left the princess’s neck, shoulders, and arms completely bare. The top of her dress kept Courfeyrac’s breasts in place, making them small but still accenting them before descending to her waist. A pattern of crystals ran over the seam between the two parts of the dress, the neat pattern at the top part beginning to scatter over the chiffon layers of the skirt and making it shimmer.

“Should I take your silence to be a good sign?” Courfeyrac said, a smile teasing the lips that Combeferre had gently ran gloss across.

Combeferre cleared her throat and moved towards the closet, to get Courfeyrac’s shoes and to hide her blushing face. “I suppose.” She returned with the shoes, white sandals with delicate and intricate straps, and unfastened them, kneeling before her princess. Courfeyrac lifted her skirt to reveal her foot, and Combeferre helped her into the sandals, fixing the straps so they were snug around Courfeyrac’s calves. She didn’t look up at Courfeyrac, but gave into the temptation to graze her fingers casually across her warm skin as she fastened the flimsy buckles.

Courfeyrac gasped, and Combeferre bit her lip. “My apologies, m’lady.”

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre finished fastening the sandals but remained on her knees in front of her princess. “Look at me,” she said, and Combeferre obeyed, raising her eyes to Courfeyrac’s worried face. “You never have to apologize to me. You would never hurt me on purpose.”

Combeferre nodded. “That’s true.”

“Now please stand up,” Courfeyrac said. “I feel weird with you down there.”

Combeferre smiled and rose. “Time to go to your party.”

“Woot,” Courfeyrac said, keeping a straight face.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac ran her finger around the opening of her champagne flute, hoping that her boredom was playing off as polite interest if not thoughtful fascination. The royals sitting at the high table with Courfeyrac – the closest allies to the French throne – were discussing the affairs of farmers in Bangladesh or something. Any other time, Courfeyrac would probably be a major participant in the conversation, but she was currently preoccupied with the prickling feeling on her upper left arm.

Ever since a half an hour ago, the feeling of pins and needles dancing over the surface of her arm had steadily increased in intensity. Knowing that her tattoo was coming, Courfeyrac tried to calm her racing heart, and take her mind off of it. The more she wished the tattoo was here already, the longer the time would feel.The nerves from discovering her soulmate soon were making her too nauseous to eat, even though a decadent piece of cake was in front of her, white cake covered in vanilla buttercream and strawberries. She wanted to eat it, but couldn’t stomach it. She felt an invisible needle jam into her bicep and she winced.

All of the royals around her turned at once. “Princess?” Prince Montparnasse of Italy said. “Should we have a servant get your mother? Is it time?”

Courfeyrac hesitated, and then shook her head. “No, please don’t-” She flinched again at the next stab of the needle of fate, harder than the first one.

Combeferre appeared beside her, bowing to the table before turning to Courfeyrac. “Your Highness, your mother is requesting your presence. It is almost the minute of your birth and she would like to make sure that the cameras capture the moment that your tattoo appears.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac said, placing the champagne flute she had been holding onto the table and standing, taking her leave. The other royals murmured congratulatory remarks to her, then returned to their conversation.

Combeferre led Courfeyrac towards the adjoining room that the queen had set apart for the paparazzi and reporters. As they wove through the tables, Courfeyrac glanced around the large banquet hall, noticing screens in the corners that were currently projecting the image of an empty armchair. Her stomach rolled over.

“Hello, darling,” Courfeyrac’s mother said when they reached the room, and kissed the air next to Courfeyrac’s cheek.

“Do we really need all of these cameras?” Courfeyrac said, mindful of the microphones around her.

“Of course we do. What if your soulmate was unable to make it here tonight?”

Courfeyrac raised her eyebrows, surprised at her mother. “Will you be broadcasting this to the rest of the country?”

Courfeyrac’s mother scoffed. “Of course not, darling. The common people don’t need to know. If they aren’t your soulmate, why should they know what your mark looks like?”

Courfeyrac swallowed and didn’t respond to her mother. She felt Combeferre to her side, still and silent. Feeling a twinge in her arm, like a twitching rippling of the muscle, Courfeyrac looked down at her skin and saw a dark spot that had not been there before.

“Please sit down, Antoinette,” the queen said, and Courfeyrac obeyed. From all of the faces in a circle around her, camera operators and family members, her eyes found her servant. Combeferre stood towards the back, with the camera people, watching Courfeyrac with inscrutable eyes. When she noticed Courfeyrac looking at her, she smiled slightly, and Courfeyrac was calmed for a moment.

And then the rippling of her arm muscles intensified and Courfeyrac gripped the arms of the chairs, biting her bottom lip and closing her eyes. The pain was intense, the rippling so fast that it began to feel like a burn, some mysterious mark being branded in her skin by persons or powers unknown. Like a needle being pulled out of Courfeyrac’s arm, the pain suddenly ended, leaving behind the reminder of the pain she had felt. Courfeyrac slowly opened her eyes, looking around at her mother, the cameras, and then finally seeing Combeferre, who had her hands over her mouth, her eyes wet.

Finally looking down at her own arm, Courfeyrac saw first a picture of the sun, red and orange and yellow rays reaching around her bicep. In the center of the sun was a small black sketch of an insect, with wide wings – a moth, beautiful and understated.


	3. Chapter 3

After Courfeyrac’s tattoo reveal, Combeferre made her way to the nearest servant’s bathroom and locked the door behind her. She ran water for a few moments, feeling the flow turn from lukewarm to cold under her fingertips, then splashed it onto her flushed face. Gazing into the chipped mirror above the sink, Combeferre grinned at her reflection, looking more carefree than she had in years, ever since her father had passed away, forcing her to leave school to find a job at the palace. Every paycheck since then had gone to support her mother, who was unable to find a stable job due to her wheelchair-bound status.

Her brother had wanted to leave his schooling instead of Combeferre, but he had been in training to become a lawyer, and that had more long-term potential for the family than Combeferre finishing high school. Then the endless war that their country was in had intensified, leading to another round of drafting, resulting in Combeferre’s brother being shipped away, a mere month away from taking the bar exam. Combeferre and her mother had heard nothing about him, despite Courfeyrac’s attempts to get answers from her parents.

But their troubles were close to being over now. She and Courfeyrac had a legal right to marry now, and her mother could come live in the palace. Financial stability was within Combeferre’s grasp, not to mention marriage to the love of her life. Of course money didn’t buy happiness, precisely, but it would go a great deal of the way towards contentment for Combeferre and her mother.

How would Combeferre tell Courfeyrac about their matching tattoos and soulmate status? Combeferre imagined herself bursting out of the bathroom door and dashing towards the dais at which Courfeyrac sat, tearing off the sleeve of her own palace uniform and allowing the cameras to capture the image of the dark tattoo on her arm. Anxiety twisted her heart for a moment and she shook her head at her reflection. That bold of a maneuver was unlikely to go well, and could make Courfeyrac uncomfortable.

No, the best course of action was probably to get the princess alone, and explain things. Combeferre smiled to herself, looking down at her hands. She could imagine the look on Courfeyrac’s face, shock followed by an affectionate smile, arms wrapped around her. Combeferre took one last look in the mirror to make sure that she looked poised, then turned and unlocked the door, stepping out of the bathroom to return to the party and to her soulmate.

-

Courfeyrac looked out over the lights of the capital city below, breathing in the cool and slightly damp air of the night. Her arm had yet to stop tingling from the appearance of her tattoo, and she frequently brushed her fingertips against it. The person she was meant to love would have this same mark on their skin, and until she met them, it was the only connection that they had, so she was unable to prevent herself from touching it.

She felt a couple of fingertips on her shoulder and started, turning to see a handsome man smiling at her with straight white teeth and shining green eyes. He had long blonde hair tied back, with a couple of loose strands trailing and curling against his black suit. “Hello,” he said, and the sound of his voice made Courfeyrac shiver.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said.

“You looked lonely out here,” the man said.

“I’m alright,” she said. “Just thinking.”

“Of course,” he said, “it’s been a big night for you, princess.”

Courfeyrac nodded, biting her lip to avoid smiling widely from the way he said her title. “Certainly is. It almost makes me regret being a princess, you know?”

“Except for all of the privileges you get from your position, of course,” the man said, not cruelly.           

Courfeyrac giggled, shrugging her shoulders. “Yes, that’s true. I really shouldn’t complain that much… What was your eighteenth birthday like?”            

“You think I’m older than eighteen?” The man stuck out his lower lip, but his eyes still twinkled at her. “I’m offended.”

“You’ve aged well,” Courfeyrac said, winking.

“Really?” The man said, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhmm,” she said, “you’re very handsome. Distinguished, even.”

The man laughed and held out his hand. “My name is Felix Tholomyes.”

Courfeyrac placed her hand into his, preparing to shake it, but then he raised it to his lips and grazed them against the top of her hand. “Antoinette Courfeyrac.”

“Of course,” he said, slowly lowering her hand, finally releasing it. Her hand felt warm, tingling against the cold air, and Courfeyrac bit her lower lip.

“So,” Courfeyrac said, “your eighteenth birthday?”

“My parents had a small party,” Tholomyes said. “Only friends. We ate cake after my tattoo came in.”

“May I see it?” Courfeyrac said. “The tattoo, I mean.”

Tholomyes grinned at Courfeyrac. “What else would I be showing you?” He folded up his suit coat jacket’s sleeve, slowly beginning to roll up the white dress shirt as to not wrinkle it too badly.

Courfeyrac stared at the forearm that Tholomyes was revealing, her eyes wide. “Holy shit,” she said, looking up at Tholomyes, who bore a sun and moth design etched into his skin. “You’re my soulmate.”

-

Combeferre walked around the boundaries of the dance floor, ducking her head to avoid attention. She knew where Courfeyrac would be; the balcony where she always went to take a break when she was stressed out. Her steps quickened as she reached the French doors, and she slipped through them to the cold air outside.

Courfeyrac was there, but she was not alone. She and a tall blond man were comparing tattoos, the man’s on his forearm and Courfeyrac’s on her shoulder. Combeferre hesitated by the door, unsure of whether or not to interrupt her princess, who had not noticed her entrance. Then Courfeyrac smiled brilliantly up at the man, reached up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is in progress. The rating etc. might change as the fic progresses, but I don't want to jump the gun at this point.


End file.
